


The Christmas Interlude

by randomdreamer01



Series: Where's My Love? [10]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Divorce, Romance, there is a slight upturn in happiness?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10099370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomdreamer01/pseuds/randomdreamer01
Summary: Bodhi's phone rings when he and Jyn are finishing up their horrible meal of cold turkey sandwiches, mince pies and apples. He looks at the name on the screen and feels a strange, horrible tugging at his heart.He should have known. It’s Christmas. Of course it’s going to ring."Jyn, you and Cassian weren’t the only ones who lost things when the divorce happened.”...How Cassian, Jyn, Bodhi and Kay handle Christmas - together and apart.This is asequel toEmergency Contact.





	1. Bodhi and Jyn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guineapiggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineapiggie/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one before the final one, guys. Two chapters on what happens after **[Emergency Contact](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9541490)**. We are nearing the end! 
> 
> Something I'm proud of - [I've made a playlist for the series which you can listen to by clicking here. More new songs added, including Christmas ones!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHU9e97LkZXq7jsvBams3flT&spfreload=10) Thank you also to the lovely pingou for the edit.
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than Christmas. So leave one if you can. Cheers!

__

_No one warns you about the amount of mourning in growth._

**Té V. Smith**

* * *

 

_They're cutting down trees_

_They're putting up reindeer_

_And singing songs of joy and peace_

_Oh I wish I had a river_

_I could skate away on_

.

.

.

_\- Jyn : [8:32]_  

Hi.

Bodhi? 

You there?

 

_\- Jyn: [8:50]_

Okay. 

Guess you’re on your way to class or something and can’t get to your phone right now. 

I know it’s been a while since we talked, but please don’t freak out.

I have something to tell you. 

 

_\- You : [8:51]_

Jyn?

I’m here. 

What’s wrong? 

 

_\- Jyn : [8:52]_

Please don’t freak out.

_-You : [8:53]_

Why would I freak out?

 

 

_\- Jyn : [8:54]_

I’m at the hospital.

Some idiot shot me on a job.

But I’m out of surgery now. I just needed you to know I’m okay.

 

_\- You : [8:55]_

Which hospital are you at??

Send me the location.

Now.

 

_\- Jyn : [8:56]_

You don’t have to come get me.

I promise you. I’m okay.

 

_-You : [8:57]_

Send me the fucking location now!!

 

_\- Jyn : [8:59]_

Bodhi, there’s really no need.

You have better things to do.

 

_\- You : [9:00]_

Jyn, I am not joking! 

 

_\- Jyn : [9:02]_

I’m fine. I really, really am fine.

 

_\- You : [9:03]_

Send me the fucking location, Jyn.

Just send it to me. 

 

_\- Jyn : [9:06]_

I told you. There’s NO need.

I’m well taken care of.

The TV channels here are shit though.

 

_\- You : [9:07]_

Not funny, Jyn.

Where are you? I’m coming to get you.

 

_\- You : [9:14]_

Jyn?????

 

_\- You : [9:37]_

Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment?

On WhatsApp? 

You’re such a child!

 

_\- You : [9:58]_

Bloody hell, Jyn.

Help a man out here. 

You were in surgery, for fuck’s sake.

 

_\- You : [10:22]_

Tell me where you are.

Don’t make me call Kay and ask for help.

 

_\- You : [10:59]_

I’m giving you thirty minutes before I call Kay.

 

_\- You : [11:13]_

Jyn, you owe me.

 

_\- Jyn : [11:24]_

Sharing the location with you now.

 

* * *

 

**Seven days before Christmas**

 

The first thing Bodhi notices when he walks into the patient’s ward is the huge banner displayed behind the nurse counter in red and gold: _Merry Christmas and Happy New Year._ Right by it, just to the left and squeezed in between the service lift and the counter, is a medium-sized Christmas tree decorated with lights, baubles, ornaments, stockings and wreaths. The sight of it gives Bodhi pause, makes him feel a strange tightening in his chest, and he has to brush aside the nostalgia he feels for _something_ before he can give an awkward cough to draw the nurse’s attention. She looks up from her flip chart and places her blue-rimmed glasses upon her head. 

“Good afternoon,” the nurse says, her eyes widening at the sight of Bodhi. (He gets that a lot here. He is _almost_ used to it by now.) “How may I help you today?”

“Um..I’m here to see Jyn Erso? She just had surgery?”

“Ah.” Something shifts in the nurse’s expression and she purses her lips. “The mysterious, self-inflicted gun shot wound.”

Just hearing it voiced aloud makes Bodhi’s heart sink. He drops his gaze. “Yes, ma’am. That’s the one.”

“Are you another ex-husband?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” says the nurse, putting her glasses back on. “Down the hall to your right. Room number 719.”

Bodhi mutters his thanks and the nurse dismisses him with a polite smile. 

Room 719 is a few doors down from the counter and Bodhi peers in through the slot on the door before he goes in. He can’t see much - just the side of a television set, a chair and a tiny crack of light coming through the open curtains. He pushes the door open and slips into the room, making sure his steps are making as little sound as possible. 

The sight he sees brings a lump to his throat: Jyn asleep in the bed, tubes running from her wrist to a nearby machine. She is breathing, he notices immediately - a slow, almost peaceful breathing that causes him to exhale in relief. He stands staring at her for far too long before he can bring himself to grab the chair and sit down next to her. Strangely, he sees a tiny sunflower by her bedside table and a pink _‘Get Well Soon’_ balloon tied to her bed. The thing is nearly out of air now, but it still manages to float and bob along like it is on its last, dying leg. What a pathetic sight, he thinks fleetingly and wistfully, to attempt flight when a fall is the most likely outcome. 

_But isn’t that precisely what I’m doing?_

Jyn shifts in her sleep, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. She looks tiny, lying there, safe and whole and young, and Bodhi wishes they could sit here forever. 

He recalls the many times Jyn had called him during the past five years since she and Cassian divorced. He recalls the late nights of him holding her by the hair as she vomited into his toilet and him rushing to class the next morning, too tired and hungover to understand the lectures. He remembers the panic, the despair, the self-destruction, the _giving up,_ and he has to curl his hand into a fist.

“I don’t know what else to do, Bodhi,” she had told him. “I’m no good at doing anything else.” 

He had shaken his head, muttered his argument under his breath, but never once contradicted her. _It is Jyn_ , he told himself. _You can’t expect her to go on the straight and narrow. Especially not without Cassian._

But now, here, seeing her lying on a hospital bed with a gunshot wound in her side… Bodhi wishes that he could have been braver. Cleverer. More determined. He wishes he were Chirrut or Baze or even Kay. They would have talked some sense into her somehow - put a stop to everything before she got herself here. But none of them had been around. It was just Bodhi. And he thinks he has failed her just as much as she has failed herself. 

So he reaches out and takes her hand. She moves a little, but doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t wake up. 

“Hey, Jyn,” he whispers, half to her and half to himself. “Thank God you’re alive.”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, holding her hand and looking at the pink balloon. It could have been days or weeks; at least, to him, it feels that way. When she finally opens her eyes and sees him, they both say nothing. They hold on to each other instead, her hand in his, her other hand gripping tightly on his arm. It is an embrace of sorts and Bodhi is glad, because how many times can you say _‘I miss you’_ without it turning redundant?

 

* * *

 

**Six days before Christmas**

 

Jyn’s stuff consists of only her pair of old combat boots, her phone, and the clothes Bodhi bought for her before she was discharged by the doctor. He rolls up the t-shirts and the jeans that she’s not wearing, stuffs them into the backseat of his second hand Volkswagen. When she slides into the passenger seat, she is wearing his oversized hoodie and a pair of faded jean shorts. She insists on bringing the small pot of sunflower and the sad, deflated pink balloon with them and Bodhi has to be the one who crams both items into the backseat along with her clothes, his textbooks and backpack. 

When he turns the car onto the highway, he looks sideways at her and finds her staring out the window, her chin resting on her hand in an almost wistful posture.

“So what happened?” he asks. It is the first time he’s asked that question since he showed up at the hospital. With Jyn, he has learned not to rush it. The more he rushes, the worse it gets. 

“Fucking idiot,” she replies with only a slight edge to her tone. “Thought he’s going to scarper with more than half his share.” 

“By shooting you?”

She shrugs. “He’s not a particularly smart bloke.” 

“He’s not - ” Bodhi grimaces, grips the wheel a little tighter. “He’s not someone you found through Han or Lando, was he?”

“No.” She hesitates and tugs a loose strand of hair behind her ear before continuing. “I’m…on my own now. And Han is married and Lando is…”

“Trying to be a respectable business man?” scoffs Bodhi. 

A hint of a smile and Jyn turns to look at him. “What about you? Flight school gave you time off classes?” 

Bodhi turns away sharply. “I..uh…we have Christmas holiday.”

“And you don’t have any coursework to do?” She raises an eyebrow. “Bodhi -”

“We’re best mates, Jyn,” he cuts her off, but keeps his eyes straight ahead. “If you think I was going to bail on you when you nearly _died,_ then you don’t know me at all.”

She lets the silence stretch on for a couple of seconds. Then he feels her tiny hand encircling his. 

“Thanks, Bodhi.”

“Well…you can thank me by stopping.” 

“Stopping what?”

“You _know_ what. Stop taking all these jobs. Stop trying to get yourself killed.” 

“I’m not trying to get myself killed,” she says and pulls her hand away. “And I don’t want to talk about this now.”

“Okay. When do you want to talk about it then?”

Her answer of _never_ hangs in the air, unsaid. He lifts a hand to scratch at his beard and sighs. He has come this far, he might as well just _say_ it. 

“Cassian came to see you, didn’t he?”

“What made you say that?” Her tone is suddenly harsh and it _cuts._

“Because - because it’s obvious.” He doesn’t dare look at her; he signals and changes lane, all without sparing her a glance. “The nurse asked me if I was another ex-husband and he’s the only one besides me who knows how much you like sunflowers.” 

Again. Silence. 

“You - you don’t have to lie to me, Jyn. God knows I don’t judge.”

“I know you don't judge, Bodhi,” she says and her voice sounds tiny. Insignificant. Sad. “You _never_ judge. Which is precisely the problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” she sighs and the sound is desperate enough that it gives him courage to look at her. She is staring at the road and not at him, her brows furrowed and her lips pursed. “It means…Just forget about it, Bodhi.”

“What do you - ” 

“He’s still listed as my emergency contact so they called him before I went into surgery. He drove down to make sure I was okay. Nothing happened. We…we talked. That’s all.”

“About what?”

“Things.” 

_Things._ Bodhi wishes he were braver so he could ask what those _things_ were. But he feels as though he is walking on thin ice. One misstep, one wrong toe out of place, and both of them will be plunged down into the cold, dark waters. So he asks instead: “Jyn, are you - are you okay?”

She looks out the window and that same wistful expression returns. 

“I wish…” she says, “I wish it would snow.” 

 

* * *

 

**Five days before Christmas**

 

Bodhi wakes up at seven in the morning to go to the library and finds her still asleep on his sofa. He fixes her a plate of pancakes and leaves it on the floor next to her. 

When he returns late in the evening, he finds the pancakes untouched and has to throw them out. She is still sleeping when he goes to bed at around midnight, but not before he checks to see if she’s still breathing.

(Just in case.)

 

* * *

 

**Four days before Christmas**

 

Bodhi wakes up at six thirty to get ready for his group project and finds her still asleep on his sofa. He fixes her a new plate of pancakes and leaves it in the same place.

When he returns late in the evening, she is still sleeping. But this time, he finds the plate empty. Smiling a little to himself, he picks it up and puts it in the sink. 

She is still sleeping when he goes to bed at midnight, but not before he checks to see if she’s still breathing.

(Again. Just in case.)

 

* * *

 

**Three days before Christmas**

 

Bodhi comes home to a dining table stacked with boxes of Chinese takeaway and Jyn in fresh clothes. She looks up from her task of unpacking a box of spring rolls as he comes through the door and grins. 

“What’s this?” he asks and he can’t help but grin back.

“Dinner.” 

“Dinner?” He dumps his jacket on an arm chair and walks over to marvel at what she’s set down. “You ordered dinner? I’m glad you’re finally out of your….weird stupor. Or whatever it was.” 

“I nearly died, for Christ’s sake. Cut me some slack,” she says, rolling her eyes, but she is still smiling when she sits down at the table. “Do you have work to do tonight?”

He does, but it doesn’t stop him from asking: “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“Let’s watch a _really_ bad film.”

He frowns, taking a seat opposite hers. “How bad?” 

“ _Batman and Robin_ bad.” 

He stares at her for a second, sees the hint of a twinkle in her eyes, and shrugs.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m in.”

 

* * *

 

**Two days before Christmas**

 

He keeps expecting her to be gone at the end of the day, but he comes home to find her curled up on the sofa in his hoodie, remote tv in hand, asleep while _Casablanca_ plays on the screen. 

He switches off the film, wraps a blanket around her and leaves her there. 

Two hours later, she strolls into the kitchen with the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, looking for a cup of tea. He looks up from his course work, smiles at her and teases her about sleeping too much. She rolls her eyes, throws out the excuse of _nearly dying,_ and makes tea for them both. 

He keeps expecting her to be gone at the end of the night, but she hangs around. And he enjoys her company too much to question why. 

 

* * *

 

**Christmas Eve**

 

Bodhi overslept. The clock by his bedside table blinks back at him: _11:37 am_. He hears the TV from the living room and the first thought that comes to his mind is _‘she’s still here’._

He dresses, brushes his teeth and emerges from his room with the idea of asking her to go with him to the library. Maybe a change of scenery would do her good. And it’s Christmas Eve. Aren’t nice things supposed to happen on Christmas Eve?

But when he sees her on the sofa, he knows immediately that something is wrong. Her eyes are damp with tears, her chin resting on her knee, and there - there it is. A bottle of vodka in her hand. 

He thought he had gotten rid of every bottle in his house the day he brought her home. But he must have missed a place. God damn it, he must have missed a place. 

“Jyn?”

Again. Thin ice. She is sinking. And he is arriving too late to the scene. 

She doesn’t look at him, barely acknowledges his presence as he takes a seat next to her. 

“Where’d you find this?”

“Under the sink,” she says, voice heavy. She tips the bottle at him and takes another sip. “Seems like it survived the purge.”

“There wasn’t a - ”

“Of course there was.”

“I asked if you were okay.”

“Well, I was. But then I got sad.” She tips the bottle at him again and the smile she wears is a sardonic one. “It comes and goes, you know.”

“Jyn, do you - do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

_Getting shot. Nearly dying. Seeing Cassian again after five years._

But still, Bodhi is not brave enough. He simply shrugs and she turns to look at him. Regret is swimming in her eyes. 

“Bodhi, do you still have it?”

“Have what?” He _knows_ what. But maybe if he doesn't say it, things might not get worse.

“My ring,” she replies. 

(She doesn’t call it her wedding ring anymore. When she used to call him up drunk in the middle of the night, she always called it ‘my ring’. Just ‘my ring’, and they both knew what she meant.)

“I promised to keep it safe,” says Bodhi. “So it’s safe.”

“Can I see it?” 

“No.”

“Come on, Bodhi. Don’t be a bastard.”

_Bastard._ He swallows down the word. Reminds himself that she can always be a little insensitive when she’s drunk. That she doesn’t _really_ mean it. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says. 

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll have an urge to throw it away and then you're going to regret it afterwards. You made me promise.”

She cackles and the sound is all sharp, all edges, all cruel. “Promises mean nothing.”

“They do to me.” 

“You broke one big promise already, Bodhi,” she says, and the words keep spilling out like she has no control over them. “Didn’t you promise my father, before he died, that I was going to be okay?” 

The ice breaks beneath him. He is falling, sinking, the cold swallowing him up. This time, he has no problem looking her straight in the eye and he can see the realisation slipping into her gaze. 

“Bodhi, I’m - I didn’t - ” 

His own voice sounds like a stranger’s to his own ears. It is broken, frozen, like all the life has gone out of it. 

“I know you’re drunk, Jyn, but there is a line. There’s always a _fucking_ line.” 

“Bodhi, please,” she stammers, the regret growing worse. “I wasn’t thinking. It just slipped out. I didn’t mean it. Seeing Cassian again…well, it fucked me up and I - ”

“Don’t you think I understand all that, Jyn? You and Cassian weren’t the only ones who lost things when the divorce happened!”

“Bodhi - ”

He gets to his feet, brushes her hand away. “I’m - I’m no good at fighting you. Honestly I’m not. I’m not even good at being _angry_ with you. But sometimes, Jyn. _There’s a fucking line._ ” 

“Bodhi - ”

But he is passed the point of listening to her. He knows he is going to regret it the next morning. Hell, he’s going to regret it in the next hour! But he marches to the kitchen and grabs the magnet from the fridge. The magnet shaped like Texas. The one she and Cassian bought for him during their trip to Corpus Christi. 

“You want to talk about promises, Jyn?” He shows her the magnet and she is staring at him, her eyes pleading, her feet rooted to the spot. But for once, he is too goddamn tired to care. “This? _This_ is a promise. And you broke it.”

Before he realises what he’s doing, he hooks back his hand and throws. The thing hits the floor, shatters into tiny little pieces, and he thinks he hears her gasp in despair. 

“Don’t follow me,” he spits out.

He doesn’t even remember to grab his jacket before he slams the door shut behind him. 

 

* * *

 

_\- Jyn : [12:37]_

Are you still mad?

Please come back.

Let’s talk about this. 

 

_\- Jyn : [13:08]_

I didn’t mean it.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

 

_\- Jyn : [14:02]_

I’m horrible.

I’m an asshole.

I’m the worst person in the whole world.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

 

_\- Jyn : [14:47]_

Jurassic Park is on TV. 

Come on, Bodhi.

 

_\- Jyn : [15:55]_

Please don’t ignore me.

 

_\- Jyn : [17:00]_

Okay. I get the message.

I’ll give you time.

 

_\- Jyn : [22:55]_

Bodhi, it’s almost Christmas.

Just come home.

I’m sorry.

 

_\- Jyn : [23:44]_

Okay. 

Fine.

I’ll leave.

You won’t see me when you come back.

But know that I’m really, really sorry.

I hope you can forgive me one day.

 

_\- You : [23:46]_

No.

Stay.

Just…

Give me till morning.

Okay?

 

_\- Jyn : [23:47]_

Okay.

 

* * *

 

**Christmas Day**

 

Bodhi ends up sleeping in the library and returning home at ten in the morning. He thinks she’s going to be gone by then. A part of him begins to wish that she would be, but when he pushes open his front door, he is greeted by a _very_ unexpected sight: a Christmas tree in the middle of his living room and Jyn in his Christmas sweater, putting up lights. 

He pauses in the doorway, words failing him. But she turns around and smiles. It is a cautious smile - one that says all sorts of things - and they end up looking at each other awkwardly, not knowing who should speak first. 

“You hate Christmas,” is the first sentence that comes to Bodhi. 

Jyn shrugs. “But _you_ love Christmas,” she says and lifts up the lights in her hands. “I found the tree and the lights in your basement. I managed to find a store that’s open and got us Christmas crackers, one disgusting pack of turkey meat and some mince pies. I couldn’t find mulled wine though, but I thought that we could - ”

“Have a British Christmas?”

“Yes,” she says, chuckling softly. “Not the real thing, but close enough.” 

A part of Bodhi wants to continue being angry with her. A large part, actually. But seeing her, scared and unsure, standing beside the pathetic Christmas tree he'd bought by himself at Wallmart… 

Well, with him, there is always a pattern. Nostalgia (always) wins out at the end of the day. Especially with her.

“Give me those lights,” says Bodhi eventually, closing the door behind him. “You’re putting them up wrong.”

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, they stand back to admire their work. It is not too bad, considering the circumstances. A few cracked up baubles hanging from limp branches, the lights, fake snow made out of tissue paper. Bodhi cannot help but grin at the sight. Jyn arches an eyebrow at him. 

“Are you seriously impressed?” 

“Impressed enough.”

“You’re easy to please,” she says. She hesitates for a moment, crosses her arms. “Sometimes I think you're the best person I know.”

“Not a compliment.” 

“Oh, it is,” she says. Her smile slips and a more serious expression crosses her face. She moves closer to him until their elbows brush. “You’re right too, you know.”

“About what?”

“About everything. There’s a fucking line and I crossed it. I think I crossed it a long time ago. I need to stop now. Find something else I’m good at, if there’s anything. Maybe write. Read. Travel. I might go back to England for a while. God knows I could use the change in weather.” Bodhi laughs at that. He pulls her in closer and she snuggles her face into the arm of his sweater. “And it’s not your fault I’m so fucked up, Bodhi. It’s not.” 

He knows that. Of course he knows that. But he hasn’t always _felt_ it. Hearing her say it out loud is almost enough to change everything. 

“You’re coming back next year for my graduation, right?” he asks. 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good. Because I would never forgive you otherwise.” 

“So does that mean you’ve forgiven me for what I said last night?”

He smiles thinly. “Just about.”

“I didn’t mean it, Bodhi. Please believe me.”

His breath hitches in his throat. “I know you didn’t mean it,” he says, his eyes fixed on the tree. “But it’s definitely something I’ve thought about before. Whether I could have done more…”

“No one could have done more. What happened was…bound to happen, I suppose.” And her voice drops even lower as she whispers, careful and precise: “But, Bodhi, I’ve always meant to ask you.”

“Ask me what?”

“Why didn’t you give up on us?”

She doesn’t have to say it; he already knows. By ‘us’, she doesn’t mean her and him. She means her and Cassian. Her and Cassian at the beginning of everything. Her and Cassian at the end of everything. 

Bodhi lets out the breath that he’s been holding and grips her tighter. 

“You’re both…you’re both family, I guess.” 

“And now?”

“Now?” He sighs again. “Now…I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

His phone rings when they are finishing up their horrible meal of cold turkey sandwiches, mince pies and apples. He looks at the name on the screen and feels a strange, horrible tugging at his heart. 

He should have known. It’s Christmas. Of course it’s going to ring. 

“What?” asks Jyn, looking up from her task of putting away the plates. 

“Friend,” replies Bodhi. He tells himself that he’s not lying but, of course, he is. “I’m going to take this outside.”

“Okay.” She shrugs, piling one plate on top of another. If she suspects anything, she doesn’t show it. “Which friend?”

“Flight school.”

_That_ is another lie. But, again, she doesn’t comment, and he slips into his jacket and steps outside into the freezing cold. He makes sure to close the door behind him so she would not hear when he answers the call with a sharp, curt, “Hello?” 

“Hi, Bodhi,” says Cassian, his tone smooth and neutral like always.

“Hi, Cassian.” 

“Merry Christmas.” 

“Yeah. Merry Christmas to you too.” 

Silence from the other end and Bodhi almost curses out loud.

“What do you want, Cassian?”

“I just wanted to check in.” 

Bodhi would laugh if it wasn't so sad. He sighs, shifts the phone to his other ear. "Cassian, she’s here at my place.”

A pause, then - 

“Good,” says Cassian, and the syllable is heavy with… _something._ Relief? Sadness? Bodhi has never been good at reading Cassian.

“I knew you were there at the hospital. She told me,” says Bodhi. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Is she - ”

“She’s going to be okay. She told me she’s going to stop. For real, this time.”

“We’ve heard that before.”

“Yes, but this time she means it. I know she does.”

An intake of breath and Bodhi lets his friend hang onto his words for maybe a few seconds too long. Until eventually, Cassian says: “I have to go now. But thanks for answering my call, Bodhi. Thanks for letting me know.” 

“You’re not spending Christmas alone, are you?”

“I’m at work.”

Bodhi chuckles. “Of course you are.”

“But if we finish early, Kay and I might swing around to Dameron’s.” 

“Well, that’s…unexpected.”

“I suppose things were bound to change eventually, right?” 

Bodhi thinks he catches a hint of a laugh, but he can’t be sure. Sometimes, sarcasm from Cassian is too rooted in reality, making it almost impossible to detect. He turns around and looks at Jyn through the window. She is in his kitchen, cutting into their leftover chocolate cake from three nights ago. Her brows are knitted together and she is biting her bottom lip in concentration. On top of her head, perched in a slightly awkward manner, is the blue paper crown from their Christmas cracker.

_She_ would be better at deciphering Cassian’s garbled tone, but even she had failed in the end. 

Bodhi smiles ironically at the thought, and it doesn’t matter that both his friends can’t see it. 

“You still love her, don’t you?” says Bodhi. 

It is not a question. Cassian understands that too because he doesn’t offer a reply. Bodhi scoffs at the silence and says: “She still loves you too. You know that, right?” 

“Bodhi - ”

“Yeah, I know. It doesn’t really matter. It is what it is.” 

“It’s just - ”

“Merry Christmas, Cassian.”

Cassian sighs. “Merry Christmas, Bodhi.”

Bodhi is the one who hangs up first. Because, quite frankly, there is nothing else left to say. And he ponders on how funny it is that flight school has managed to make him bolder somehow.

The sky is cloudless today - vast, blue and bright. He thinks of how he can’t wait to be up there someday - flying, soaring and simply _belonging._ And as he stands there and dreams, a breeze tickles pass. Soft, white flakes begin to fall, each one as delicate and new as the growing warmth inside his chest

“Jyn!” Bodhi cries, and his voice is choked with unfamiliar joy. “It’s snowing! It’s bloody snowing!” 

 

* * *

_A very merry Christmas_

_And a happy New Year_

_Let's hope it's a good one_

_Without any fear_

 

_War is over, if you want it_

_War is over now_

_._

_._

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Next chapter: Cassian and Kay_
> 
>  
> 
> This is not one of my best, I have to admit, but I have to set them up for the final story in the series. However, I'm glad we get to see Bodhi again and hear the story from his perspective. What an absolute sweetheart and I feel horrible for what I put him through! 
> 
> Thanks to Joni Mitchell's "River" and John Lennon's "Merry Christmas (War Is Over)" for the inspiration. The Maroon 5 cover of the latter, however, is slower and sadder, which fits the story better, obviously! [Both songs are included in the series' playlist which you can listen to by clicking here!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHU9e97LkZXq7jsvBams3flT&spfreload=10)
> 
> PLEASE leave a review and let me know what you thought. Much love!


	2. Cassian and Kay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on, man. It’s Christmas.”
> 
> “I like you, Dameron, but if I hear that line one more time, I’m going to punch someone. Preferably you.” 
> 
> “Maybe you _need_ to punch someone. Maybe it’ll help.”
> 
> “Help with what?” asks Cassian, something like dread rising up in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter before the final story in the series! We are nearing the end! This chapter was tricky to write, but a joy as well. I always love being inside Cassian's head. 
> 
> Another important bit of info - [I've made a playlist for the series which you can listen to by clicking here. (More new songs added)](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHU9e97LkZXq7jsvBams3flT&spfreload=10)
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than the possibility of Diego Luna and Oscar Isaac being in the same film. So leave one if you can!

_Some people seem to get all sunshine, and some all shadow._

**Louisa May Alcott**

* * *

 

 _I will go if you ask me to_  
****

_I will stay if you dare_

_And if I go, I’m going crazy_

_I’ll let my darling take me there_

_._

_._

_._

Cassian saw it too late. Much too late. 

He remembers his hand on the man’s throat when he slammed him against the wall. The vital panic and the complete desperation in the man’s eyes as he clawed at Cassian’s grip, choking, spluttering, _dying…._

“Confess, you son of a bitch,” Cassian had hissed, his fingers tightening around the man’s throat. “Say you killed her. Say it!” 

Someone was shouting from outside the interrogation room, banging on the door, trying to turn the lock. But it didn’t matter; the chair Cassian had pushed underneath the doorknob was holding firm. He heard Dameron cursing profusely in Spanish, then calling out his name. But everything sounded like it was coming from far away, from a different world, a different planet. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, beating in his ears like a steady, violent drum. 

He growled again. “Confess, you son of a bitch!” 

“No..no…I didn’t - I didn’t - do - it…” 

The lights were ebbing away from the man’s eyes. Fingers clawing. Breaths coming out in gasps. 

“I know you did it!” hissed Cassian. “Say the words, asshole!” 

Someone was battering down the door. _Bang. Bang. Bang._

And Cassian saw it happening too late. 

Before he knew it, he felt the cold, hard barrel of the gun jammed underneath his chin. The man’s puffy red face turned from fright to triumph and he cackled for air when Cassian’s fingers began loosening their grip on his neck. 

The man spluttered, “Too slow, detective.”

_I am about to die,_ Cassian thought. 

And it was not like the death he had imagined or dreamed for himself at all. No flames, no dust, no blood seeping from his sides. No pair of green eyes staring into his own. It was simply this: his own gun held in the hand of a murder suspect he was supposed to interrogate, pointed straight up his chin, about to blow his brains out. 

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

“I’m sorry,” said the man, and his whole body began shaking with sobs. His round cheeks, his glasses - all splattered with tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

_I am about to die._

The gun shook violently in the man’s hand; Cassian could feel the tremor going through his entire body. Then, suddenly, the barrel turned and the noise of the gunshot exploded in the tiny room, followed by a sound Cassian had hoped he would never hear again. The sound of a body hitting the ground. 

The suspect. Crumbled. Broken. Dead at Cassian’s feet, Cassian’s gun still in his hand. 

Red. There was red everywhere. 

It was Cassian’s fault. He had seen it coming too late. Much too late. 

But, then again, Cassian thinks he sees everything too late.

 

* * *

 

Draven flinches when he looks at Cassian. It is a twitch in his right eye, an unremarkable, but unusual tick that has never been a habit of the man. There is sweat on his brow, above his thin moustache. His usually calm demeanour is now replaced by a seething, suppressed rage that makes the air in the office cackle with tension. 

“What the fuck were you thinking, Andor?” 

Cassian’s tongue feels as though as it is stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Precisely.” Draven slams a hand on the desk. The noise shakes between them like an earthquake. “You and you alone are responsible for this. Mark my words.”

“Yes, I am responsible for this,” says Cassian, looking his superior straight in the eye. He is never one for flinching. Especially when it comes to something he has done wrong. “Dameron wanted to interrogate him. But I pulled rank. Said it was my case. I wanted to - ”

“Be the hero?”

The anger flares up inside Cassian’s chest. “You have known me for years, Inspector,” he says, his voice cold and strained. “You trained me into the best detective in the force. Is this honestly what you think of me?” 

Draven winces, looks away for a second. “Of course not,” he snaps. “You are right. You _are_ my best detective. Which is why I still can’t accept what happened. You didn’t just lose your head, Andor. You attacked a suspect in an interrogation room after barring the door from the inside. It wasn’t an amateurish mistake.” 

“It _was_ a mistake.”

“If it had been another detective, I would understand. But you…This is reckless. Foolish. Emotional. Extremely out of character.” 

_Reckless. Foolish. Emotional._

A dreadfully sad thought enters Cassian’s mind. Is he becoming more like _her?_ Is a brief encounter by her hospital bed, five years after their divorce, all it takes to render him completely unrecognisable? He would laugh if there wasn’t a dead man being sent to the morgue because of him, and there wasn’t blood and brains scattered on the walls downstairs. 

“The man was guilty,” Cassian brings himself to say. His voice is steady, surprisingly so. “All the evidence pointed to him. It _still_ points to him. He did it. I know he did it.”

“Of course, the bastard did it! But now that he’s dead, there will be no trial. No proof. No _justice_ for the family.” Draven spits out the word like it is poisoned. Like he doesn’t much care for it, but has to. “And not to mention the fucking trouble you’ve put us in. With the press, the higher-ups, the family.” 

“I know, sir. I apologise. I’ll…” Cassian is barely able to sigh. The heaviness in his chest…it is still too fresh, too raw. “I’ll tell the victim’s family myself.”

Draven grunts. “I expect nothing less. But we will tell them tomorrow, Andor. It’s Christmas, and no one deserves to hear their child’s killer will not be brought to justice on Christmas.” The inspector looks wearily at Cassian and it is the closest thing he could ever manage to pity. “Andor, I know it’s been a tough few weeks for you and it gives me no pleasure to say what I have to say next.” 

It has been a tough few years, to be exact. But the fact that Draven didn’t say so tells Cassian that his mentor simply _doesn’t want to go there._ He could only be grateful. 

“I’m suspending you, Andor,” says Draven, his mouth tight at the corners. “I’m suspending you indefinitely. I’m giving the case over to Dameron. Surely you understand why, of course.” 

_Yes, sir,_ Cassian wants to say, but the words will not come. 

 

* * *

 

Cassian can’t decide which is worse: the pain or the anger. Somehow, they have blended into one and have turned into a rearing, hungry monster who is wrestling back control. The beast is creeping up inside his body, slowly, gratingly, as though it had claws, and Cassian can do nothing but let it tear apart whatever pride he has left in his heart. He stumbles into his chair, grabs the keyboard, and smashes it into pieces over his desk. 

It is not even a relief that the precinct is now empty and no one is here to witness his outburst. He doesn’t think he would even care if the place was packed.

He buries his head in his hands and the drumming in his ears gets worse. 

_Beat. Beat. Beat._

There was red. So much red. There seems to be too much red wherever he goes. Perhaps it follows him around like a permanent stain…

“Andor?”

He looks up and there is Kes Dameron, already in his jacket, with a concerned look on his face. 

“I’m not going to ask if you’re alright,” says Dameron in Spanish, smiling humourlessly. “You’re obviously not.”

Cassian manages only a grunt. He runs a hand through his hair, sucks in a long breath. 

“I’ve had better days.”

“Haven’t we all?” Dameron’s smile becomes warmer. He hesitates a moment before continuing. “I hope I wasn’t being presumptuous, but I called Kay. He’s at a crime scene but he’s heading back as soon as he can. I thought it’d help…to have a friend around.”

“Thanks, Dameron.” 

“Listen, Andor. My invitation still stands.” He gestures around the precinct at the empty desks and the darkened hallway outside. “Everyone’s gone home. You and Kay can still swing around our place, you know. Shara said she made plenty of food. Yesterday, I told Poe you guys were coming and he hung up stockings. I know it’s starting to get late, but you still have time.” 

_You still have time._ Cassian almost laughs at that. 

“Thanks, Dameron, but I don’t…Well, it’s my fault we have a murder suspect who just put a bullet in his own brain.” He knows his attempt at a smile is coming across as a sneer, but he can’t care less. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.” 

“Come on, man. It’s Christmas.”

“I like you, Dameron, but if I hear that line one more time, I’m going to punch someone. Preferably you.” 

“Maybe you _need_ to punch someone. Maybe it’ll help.”

“Help with what?” asks Cassian, something like dread rising up in him. 

Dameron shrugs. “With whatever made you go mental on that suspect. All this shit you carry around, Andor...it can become a prison, you know.” He pauses, tries to hold Cassian’s gaze. “I know you took a few days off work a couple of weeks ago. I think I know where you went. And I saw - ”

“Dameron, can we not do this?”

“Do what?”

“This. Here. After I’ve just been suspended indefinitely.” 

“You don’t have to - ”

“Just go home, Dameron,” sighs Cassian. “Go home. Spend Christmas with your wife and your son. It’s the least you can do for me. God knows, half of the guys here would sacrifice their right arm just to have the chance.”

“Andor - ” 

“Seriously. Just fuck off, Dameron.” 

 

* * *

 

There are only Christmas songs on the radio. Just Christmas songs. No carols. Cassian sits in the empty precinct, drinking from his bottle of whiskey (he is out of mezcal) as he fiddles at the dial. It is all _Jingle Bells, All I Want For Christmas Is You, Frosty the Snowman._ They are not what he wants to hear at all. 

What he wants to hear, however, belongs to another time, another place, wrapped in another person entirely. Something he misses, but not quite, and the nostalgia tastes as bittersweet as the whiskey that he’s sipping from his glass. 

A long time ago, he had told Chirrut that there are days when he misses Mexico. He supposes today is one of those days. 

He takes another sip of the whiskey, turns over to another station. _Last Christmas._ Not ideal, but passable. He almost hums along and then finds himself laughing at the realisation. 

Another sip. Then he lights a cigarette, brings it to his lips, breathes in slowly. The smoke calms him somewhat. At least, it takes him away for a bit - from the room, the blood, even the lights. 

He goes over everything in his mind for what seems like the hundredth time. The questions he asked. The answers the suspect gave. The whimpering. The tears. The goddamn _act._

The case files are still in the drawers of his desk. He brings them out, perhaps for the last time, and looks through the photographs. His eyes linger too long on each and every one of them, going through every detail, every piece of evidence. And this is how Kay finds him an hour later when he arrives back at the precinct. 

“Double homicide,” says Kay, drawing up a chair and sitting down across from Cassian. “Both prostitutes. A maid found them with their throats cut in a fancy hotel room. Pretty obvious who did it. Which means no one’s getting put in jail.” He scoffs. “The bastards. You've got to admire their arrogance.” 

_Typical._ Cassian offers no reply. He lets the photograph slip out of his hand and back into the file. He picks up his glass again. 

“Dameron called,” says Kay, his tone neutral. He arches an eyebrow at Cassian. “I see you’re taking what happened well.” 

“As well as I can.” 

Kay watches him for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “It is not your fault, Cassian,” says Kay and he shrugs when Cassian glares at him. “I mean, it is partly your fault, but they shouldn’t have given you the case in the first place.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, please, Cassian, I'm not daft! I saw the victim’s body, remember? Both at the crime scene and at the morgue.” Kay’s eyes slip down to the photographs on the table. “I thought it was _her_ at first. Same height. Same hair colour. Same age. Even the same eye colour.” He leans over and picks up one of the photographs. He holds it up to the light, observing it with a strange fascination. “But the nose’s different. The chin too. And the cheekbones are not the same. All these differences become more pronounced, but only after you've given it some time… Like I said, they shouldn’t have given you the case. And you shouldn’t have taken it.”

“Kay - ” 

“Bloody detectives,” scoffs Kay. He tosses the photograph down on the table and leans back in his chair. “You are wired differently from the rest of us, the whole lot of you. There are blokes like Dameron who could make a psychopath quiver with fear and then go home to his wife and child with a smile on his face. And then there are blokes who walk around like they carry the entire world on their shoulders even though the world doesn’t need them to.”

“Beautiful observation, Kay,” drawls Cassian, lifting up his glass in a mock toast. “Really beautiful. Are you saying I’m one of the latter? Very subtly done.” 

“What I’m saying, my friend, is you are not Dameron.” 

Cassian feels the smoke stinging his eyes and his chest squeezes at Kay’s words. “I don’t need a lecture.” 

“Believe me, I’m not giving you a lecture. I’m asking you a question,” says Kay, sneering a little as he reaches over and takes the cigarette from Cassian’s hand. He stubs it out on the surface of the desk, not caring one bit that he’s making a mark on the wood. “Tell me, Cassian. Are you happy?”

Cassian frowns. “Kay, what are you playing at?”

“Just answer the bloody question.”

“Well…” He scratches absent-mindedly at his beard. “Obviously not right now.”

“I don’t mean right now, you fool. I mean in general. In life. Are you happy?” 

“Are _you_ happy?”

Kay rolls his eyes. “No. But I am not _unhappy._ Are you?” 

Cassian pauses even though he already knows the answer. He takes another sip of whiskey and the world becomes soft at the taste. He is very drunk, he realises, but he is still astonished when the word slips out.

“Yes,” he says. His voice is surprisingly quiet and honest, but once he hears it, it makes him continue as though he doesn't quite know how to stop. “Yes. But I reckon that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Some people are meant for happiness. You, perhaps. Dameron, for sure. Even fucking _Melshi._ ” He laughs dryly and feels a lump forming in his throat. He takes another drink. “Chirrut. Baze. Bodhi too. Even if he hasn’t got it now, he will someday. But not me, Kay. Not me. That’s just the way it is. I’m not bitter. I made peace with it a long time ago.”

“And there’s the rub, Cassian,” sighs Kay, looking sadder than Cassian has ever seen him. “I don’t think you’re supposed to.” 

Cassian’s heart tightens at that. He turns away, unable to meet his friend’s eye. “What are you on about, Kay?” 

“I’m on about _this,”_ says Kay. He leans forward again and takes the glass of whiskey from Cassian’s hand. “You’re drinking too much, Cassian. You’re good at hiding it, I give you that. You never drink during working hours or when other people are here. You never show up drunk in the mornings. You hardly ever _look_ affected, half the time. But sometimes I think - ”

“Alright, I get the point,” says Cassian, lifting a hand to stop his friend mid-sentence. He doesn’t think he can bear to hear anymore. “What do you want from me, Kay?”

Kay smirks. He puts the glass back down on the table with a soft _clink._ “We’re going for a drive.”

 

* * *

 

Kay drives them around for an hour, weaving between small sides streets, onto the motorway and then back onto the small side streets again. Cassian has a hunch that they’re driving around aimlessly just so he can have time to sober up. The buzz - humming and soft and comforting in his chest - is slowly fading away, and he huddles in his seat with his jacket wrapped tightly around him. Outside, there is a soft snowfall. He watches the flakes as they hit the windshield before getting swiped away as though they mean nothing. 

She likes the snow, he remembers. 

_You still love her, don’t you?_

_She still loves you too._

He tells himself that he has moved on. That he _is_ moving on. Isn't that what he’s good at? Moving on and living as though everything has not changed… 

But then the gunshot rings out again. The man is dead at his feet. Red everywhere. He sees her eyes as she is walking out the door. And he has to remind himself that it is the alcohol talking - or whatever is left of it anyway. It is the alcohol that’s bringing back the memories. Not him. Not really. 

Finally, it is Kay’s voice that breaks through his reverie. 

“We’re here.” 

The car slows to a halt and Cassian stares out the window. He has to squint to look through the whiteness, but there is no mistaking the large house by the side of the road and the name plastered on the front gate.

He can feel his grip tightening on the hem of his jacket. “Rehab facility? Kay, is this a joke?” 

“I don’t know,” says Kay, turning to look at him with mock concern. “Are we laughing?”

“Kay - ”

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” 

Cassian stares at his friend. “What the - ” 

“Carl Jung.” 

“And you just happen to have that quote stored somewhere in that thick head of yours?”

“I’m a forensic scientist, Cassian, and a Cambridge native with two different degrees.” Kay’s lips curl into a sneer. “Are you honestly asking me that question?”

“What is this about?”

“You need help.” 

“I don’t need - ”

“Five years, Cassian. Five years. That’s how long it’s been since you divorced her. A couple of weeks ago, she got shot and they called you and you were there in a flash.” 

“I was her emergency contact. I had - ” 

Kay quells him with a look. “And today you completely lost it and got a murder suspect shot. I know you have baggage, Cassian. Even before she came along. But now, things are getting worse and I’m not going to sit around and watch you kill yourself.” 

“It is not going to come to that.”

“Is it?” Kay’s sneer disappears and he glares at Cassian, his gaze cutting through everything like a blade. “Sometimes I think you _want_ to get it over with. Maybe have some bastard do it for you on the job. It’s like there is a sick competition between you and her. Who’s going to kick it first. That sort of thing. I’d say it’s twisted but, unfortunately, I know you both too well.” 

Cassian has to look away. There is pain in those brown eyes of Kay’s, more than he has ever seen before. It reminds him of Bodhi, angry and disappointed on the phone. Of Jyn lying in the hospital bed, looking at him with hurt and resentment mixed in with those flecks of green. 

“I know I’m not exactly a _healthy_ person myself,” says Kay, and Cassian can hear the grimace in his tone. “But I have you and I suppose that’s something. I am _mostly_ satisfied. I used to have Chirrut and Baze and Bodhi too. Even _her,_ in some fashion. But then the two of you ruined all that when you fucked everything up.” 

Cassian’s voice is unbelievably quiet when he says: “I never said I was sorry. Not to you.”

“You can say it now,” says Kay. “Get out of the car and walk in through those doors. I’ll be here when you get out.” 

“I can’t… The family. Tomorrow.” 

“Well, the day after tomorrow then. I’ll drive you back here.”

Cassian tries to bring himself to say something. Anything. But his brain is running out of excuses and he knows it. He hears Kay sigh again, and the sound is more one of sadness than disappointment.

“You’re still waiting, I know. You’re still waiting for her to come home. But, Cassian, what would she come home to? You? Like this?” Kay scoffs. “For once, do us all a favour and tell the truth.”

The truth? 

Cassian closes his eyes and it is her voice he hears. 

_You’re such a fucking liar_ , she had told him once. _You always were._

What is the truth, exactly? That what happened today in the interrogation room was his fault? He knows that already. Is it the fact that he is not fine and has never been fine? That he still misses her even though sometimes he can’t recall her face? That he was the one to blame for her walking out or for him letting her go? 

It feels as though there are too many truths and not enough time to tell them all. Where would he even begin? Sometimes, he is afraid that if he were to start, he would never be able to stop. 

“Cassian,” says Kay softly and kindly, or as kindly as Kay can say anything, “please just try.” 

Cassian remembers his phone call to Bodhi earlier that day. Of Bodhi telling him that she has decided to stop. Perhaps if she’s trying, then maybe he should try too. Somehow. 

So eventually - 

“Okay,” says Cassian. “Okay. But, Kay, you have to take me somewhere first.”

 

* * *

 

They find the church after a few times of getting lost down a couple of dead-end streets. Despite Kay knowing the area a little, Cassian has to search up the location on his phone. Finally, after crossing a little bridge and passing through a closed shopping street, Kay rounds a corner and there it is. A small church, decked out in yellow lights and wreaths, with a Christmas tree in the yard complete with a little nativity scene. 

Cassian signals to his friend and the car halts to a stop opposite the building. He can see a few late comers going in through the church door. A young mother with her child, with boxes of presents squeezed under their arms. The scene nearly brings a smile to his lips. 

“Cassian, why are we here?” asks Kay. 

“We’re going to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

Cassian doesn't reply, but rolls down his window instead. Flecks of snow float in, creating patterns on his jacket. Outside, the world is all white, and he thinks it is one of the most beautiful sights he has ever seen. He brings up a hand, rubs the tiredness away from his eyes, and a few minutes later, their silence is shattered when the first few bars of a song begin to filter through. 

There is an organ, Cassian hears immediately. And a choir. Not the best he’s ever heard, but still good. The song is _Silent Night._ It is not being sung in Spanish like he’d desperately hoped for, but it is enough to take him back just the same. 

“Is this,” asks Kay, a note of humour in his voice, “an indulgence of your Catholic guilt?”

“No,” replies Cassian, smiling a little, and his voice is firm despite the cold. “No, it’s not. It’s a goodbye.”

He doesn’t need to explain to what or to whom the goodbye is for. There is no need. He and Kay simply sit in the car, listening, and he keeps his eyes closed as the song plays on and on, until the last note drifts away with the sharp, broken breeze. 

_Bodhi’s right_ , he thinks. _It doesn’t really matter. It is what it is._

But maybe one day he’ll be ready. One day. 

 

* * *

_And I recall all of them nights down in Mexico_

_One place I may never go in my life again_

_Was I just off somewhere just too high_

_But I can't remember if we said goodbye_

_._

_._

_._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Gregory Alan Isakov's "If I Go, I'm Going" and Steve Earle's "Goodbye" for the lyrics. [Both songs have now been added to the series' official playlist, which you can listen to by clicking here.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHU9e97LkZXq7jsvBams3flT&spfreload=10) Jake Gyllenhaal's portrayal of Detective Loki from the film 'Prisoners' is also another inspiration. If I were a better writer, my Cassian would be more like that character. 
> 
> \- **guineapiggie** I know that in "Just Don't Take Too Long", Cassian went to rehab two months before he called Jyn so this messes up the timeline a little bit. But maybe he's been to rehab twice? Hahaha! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading and leaving kudos. The final one is coming up next, guys! It might take a while, but please bear with me. I want to get the ending just right. 
> 
> PLEASE let me know what you thought about this chapter. As always, your reviews are invaluable.


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